What is to be done, then,
when we have said what
needed
to be said
and, after saying these things,
know not what
to say
next?
One or both
afraid of the cracks
where
not-love might cast
a looming shadow
x, not loving
this
one
thing
about y,
might this
one thing
not grow, then,
like a
cancer,
the beginning
of the
end?
Once this fabric
has been
rent, torn,
repaired
is it weaker
then,
like a flaw,
or stronger,
like a
scar?
And why do these
things
always reveal how
shockingly
fragile
I am
despite my brave
words and brave
front,
I am
translucent
in direct light,
and always
left
wishing I could
shed
this skin
I’m in,
and be
someone else
I’ve tired less
of?